My grandmother was a tiny woman with soft wrinkled hands, and eyes that would sparkle when she laughed. She was a quiet woman that was more interested in observing than being the center of attention.

She grew up in a small town in Mexico and married when she was 16. Two weeks after her marriage, her mother went to her and told her that the marriage had all been a lie. Her “husband” was married to another woman and the “priest” that had conducted the ceremony, wasn’t really a priest. He was just the friend of the “husband”. My grandmother left him. She was already pregnant with her first child.

My grandmother remarried, and my mother was born. They split up, and my grandmother ended up raising the kids. She ran a boarding house and spent much of the day cleaning (go figure, a Mexican cleaning). She was a strict mother. When my mother and uncle were making too much noise, she would go to them and tell them that she was going to throw herself down the stairs if they didn’t stop the racket. When my mom told me that story I had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. Who says that?? I’ve since adopted it as my own-though I my usage of the phrase is not intended to be harsh like hers was.

She was a devout Catholic and there was a time when she went to church everyday. Growing up, my sister and I would tease her about it. My sister could always rile her up by asking her how she knew that God wasn’t a woman. It was amusing to us.

She lived in Mexico, but spent much of the year with us here in the states. The last time she visited us, she brought me all her pictures. She said that she wasn’t going to need them anymore, and I remember I told her not to say those things. She passed away a few months later.

When my cousins went to clean out her house in Mexico, they said there was nothing left, not a single scrap of paper. She had packed up everything and brought it with her. She knew it was her time. She chose to be with us. She came here to die.

Every once in awhile, my mom tries to “get with it”. She likes to pretend that she’s cool from time to time. Inevitably I end up having to explain things that she will never understand, and will immediately forget the second we’re through. Witness the following exchange:

Mom: Do you know who JC is?

Me: Jesus Christ? You’re not going to lecture me on religion, are you?

Mom: No. The rapper.

Me. Oh, you mean Jay-Z?

Mom: Yes, I guess so. I thought it was JC, though.

Me: No, mom. JC stands for Jesus Christ, and unless he just signed up with Def Jam records, I’m pretty sure that you’re talking about Jay-Z.

My brother-in-law insisted on purchasing a huge home theatre surround sound system, and has a huge TV. He also decided that he only needed one remote control, to rule them all. Anytime I go over there, it takes me 15 minutes to figure out how to turn on the receiver, TV, and cable box. It’s confusing, requires a manual, and a freaking flow chart. You can imagine my horror when my mother called me this morning to ask me how it worked.

Mom: I can’t get the stupid TV to turn on.

CS: Which remote control are you using?

Mom: What do you mean?

CS: Out of the 4 that they have, which one are you using?

Mom: The silver one.

CS: You need to get the big black one with the big blue button.

Mom: The one that says Sony on it?

CS: I don’t know what it says, it’s just big and black with a blue button.

Mom: Okay, I have it. Now what?

CS: Did you turn the cable box on?

Mom: I don’t know, there’s no picture on the TV.

CS: Walk me through what you did.

Mom: I pointed the silver remote control at the TV and turned on something, and they I grabbed one of the other remotes and turned something else on too.

CS: That doesn’t help me.

Mom: Why is there no picture on the TV? It’s just a blue screen.

CS: I don’t know because I’m not sure what you did. I need you to walk over to the cable box and power it on.

Mom: Which remote do I use?

CS: No, you don’t need a remote, you need to walk to the box to turn it on.

Something so horrible happened on Saturday. I’m still reeling from the events which I am about to write down. It was an accident, but one of the most devastating that I have ever witnessed in my life. My family and I were at Wegmans doing our grocery shopping and having some lunch. On our way out, I was carrying my niece, and my sister was responsible for carrying my things. She put my coke bottle into my Michael Kors handbag-without checking to see if the bottle cap had been screwed on all the way. Half the bottle of soda emptied into poor, defenseless Michael Kors before I realized what was happening.

I went to put some things into my bag and realized that the inside of the bag was wet. As I began cursing at my sister-in front of everyone at Wegmans-and cleaning out the bag with napkins, I realized that something horrible was happening: the soda was soaking through the leather. The tears started welling in my eyes as I turned and shouted, “It’s soaking through the fucking leather!” Everyone began grabbing napkins and dabbing at the mess. My heart sank when I looked at the napkins and realized that the beautiful color of the leather was bleeding onto the napkins. It was not a pretty sight to behold. I was so upset that I had to step outside and go for a little walk on my own.

I text messaged Muffy, and she called me right away. The pep talk made me feel much better. She reminded me that “Michael Kors is an American Icon, and is resilient,” and that he’d pull through. I pulled myself together, and went back inside.

Upon my return, we decided to take drastic measures: back to Nordstrom to see if they could help. Sadly, they did less than nothing. My mother-the doctor-had to intervene. When we got back to her house, she took matters into her hands. It was a late night for her as she treated Michael Kors hoping to minimize the scarring. The results were better than I expected, however, the soda marks are still visible. This week, he’ll be going through a 2nd round of treatments in hopes of minimizing the scars.

Please pray for the speedy recovery of my Michael Kors handbag. These are trying times for all of us.